


As I Am

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Churches, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Mute Dean, Pianist Dean, Punk Castiel, Small Towns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 15:39:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10516731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: As a goodwill gesture to his parents, Castiel, living halfway across the country, returns for the summer to his hometown to help tend their farm, and incidentally, attend their church as well. As mindless as each Sunday service is, though, he can't keep his eyes off Dean, the church's resident pianist, his skilled fingers sliding across ivory keys with utmost ease. It's not until he catches Dean sneaking out during each service, though, that Castiel discovers why he's perpetually silent, and the real meaning behind the darkness under his eyes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> _Just as I am, and waiting not_   
>  _To rid my soul of one dark blot;_   
>  _To Thee whose blood can cleanse each spot,_   
>  _O Lamb of God, I come, I come._

His fingers dance across ivory keys with innate skill, graceful as he looks between the sheet music before him and his hands, note after note struck with rhythm, with feeling. Castiel is only five minutes into the service, and he can’t look away. At the head of the church, the choir sings while the pastor conducts them with haphazard waves of his arms, the absolute opposite of the pianist seated below the pulpit. Castiel’s mother stands along with his sister and brother at his sides, each with a hymnal in their hand: Hannah on pitch, Jacob tuneless to his own ears.

It would be hilarious if Castiel weren’t dying of boredom.

The only thing that keeps his attention through the sermon, over the fire and brimstone the preacher spouts, over the amens from the back row, over half of the congregation fanning themselves with flimsy cardboard, is the man sitting on the bench with sadness in his expression and crow’s feet lining the corners of his eyes. He’s survived something awful, of what, Castiel doesn’t know, but despite his age—twenty, at the most, maybe younger—he channels his pain into song, bars upon bars, quarter notes and halves, all flowing through his fingertips, a call to song Castiel has never felt before.

The choir ends on a low note, the congregation breaking into applause afterwards when they take their seats. The pews groan with the new weight, and each member of the choir leaves the chancel to join their family in the rows, chatting briefly, smiles on their faces, as if they didn’t just cast blind praise to the empty sky like God was actually listening. It makes Castiel’s skin itch, just sitting there watching their interactions, listening to their conversations about how lovely the day is, about how God must be smiling down on them.

 _If only_ , Castiel scowls.

Amidst the shuffling of Bibles and the preacher taking the stage, Castiel loses sight of the pianist, the man no longer seated at his bench; in the back of the one-room church, a door swings closed as he presumably makes his exit. “Where’d he go?” Castiel mutters to himself, loud enough for Hannah to pick up.

“Maybe he needed some air,” Hannah answers, fanning herself with her Bible. She smoothes down her dress over her knees, afterwards reaching over to pat Castiel’s leg. “Don’t think too much about him. The piano boy’s not who you’re here for. You’re here for God, remember?”

Castiel swallows, clenching his jaw. “Right,” he says, fisting his hands in his lap. _What a joke_.

-+-

With every passing service, Castiel comes to realize, the pianist—Dean is his name, according to the gangly young man in the opposite row—doesn’t stick around for whatever the preacher has to say. Admittedly, Castiel doesn’t want to either, but as long as he lives under his parents’ roof, whether it be for the summer or otherwise, he’s contractually obligated to attend church against his will. Never once did he figure making nice would be so inherently boring and grating on his nerves. Each Sunday, it takes all of his energy not to bolt out after Dean, solely to escape having to listen to damnation for a solid hour, interspersed with prayer and the preacher shouting at the top of his lungs.

 _Religion is supposed to unite people_ , Castiel thinks, his hand itching against his slacks. But why does this feel like torture?

The congregation, enrapt as they are with chatting amongst each other and shaking hands and indulging in a rousing game of pass-the-plate-to-fund-our-new-roof, fail to notice Castiel slipping from the back pew, away from the watchful eyes of his parents, and out the front entrance, the double doors closing in his wake. Here, in the blinding summer sun, Castiel sighs and unbuttons the top two buttons of his dress shirt, afterwards rolling the sleeves up to expose his elbows. “Need an air conditioner,” he complains under his breath. _Or some sanity_.

The other side of the church is cast in shade, dwindling as the sun rises to its zenith overhead; on his walk over, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out two cigarettes and a lighter, stashed for just such an occasion. If he has to stay in podunk, Georgia for another week, he’ll end up impersonating a chimney. Or setting something on fire, whichever comes first.

Surprisingly, he finds Dean sitting beside the back door, arms hugging his shins and head propped up on his knees. He’s not looking at anything, really, green eyes trained on the forest lining the property; even from there, though, Castiel can see his hands shake, deft fingers trembling in the heat. Black loafers sit beside him, socks stuffed inside, while he digs his toes into the dirt, mindless.

From a distance, Dean’s handsome—up close, Castiel wants nothing more than to touch him, ease this beautiful man’s pain, whatever it may be.

“Hey,” Castiel calls; Dean nearly throws himself to the ground in shock, only settling when Castiel raises his hands. Still, there’s fear in his eyes, like he wants to accuse Castiel of spying, or plead not to rat him out for skipping. If anyone should be reprimanded, it’s Castiel for leaving in the first place, especially without alerting his ever vigilant family.

Dean doesn’t speak when Castiel sits, nor does he when Castiel flips his Zippo open and lights the wick, the flame attracting Dean’s attention temporarily. He looks elsewhere while Castiel takes a drag, afterwards blowing the smoke in misshapen rings into the sky.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” Castiel asks, tapping out ashes into the dirt. Again, Dean remains silent, his eyes to the ground. “You mind if I rant?”

Slowly, Dean shrugs and rests his cheek on his knees, closing his eyes.

“I’m new here, if you’d believe that,” Castiel starts. Carefully, he slips off his loafers and sets them to the side, afterwards shoving his socks inside. “My parents bought a farm. A fucking farm, like it’s their midlife crisis and they just left their cushy jobs for hard labor. My dad’s never stepped off concrete in his life, and my mom prosecutes innocent kids for a living. And they drag the rest of the family along because why? It’s fun?”

He pauses to take another pull, letting smoke out through his nose. “And then I have to come out here and go to church, because I’m making nice. You know what it’s like, to be dragged to a place you have no interest in? And I know what you’re thinking.” Castiel points a finger at Dean, who, despite his disinterest, is listening intently, his eyes on Castiel’s. “You’re thinking, but Castiel, aren’t you an adult? Can’t you just stay home? And my answer to that is,” another drag, another sigh, “…If I just do it, then they’ll stop guilt tripping me every time I fly to Georgia. Every time they call me, it’s, ‘Brother Marcus missed you at church today,’ or, ‘We’re praying for you, you know,’ like prayer’s gonna do a damn thing.”

Idly, Castiel taps his cigarette against his lips, anxious to do something other than tug at his earring-less ears or muddy his hands in the dirt. “…I feel guilty though. I moved to Los Angeles because I knew they wouldn’t approve, and I’m acing all of my classes. I’m on track to double major. I could go into astrophysics, and yet… I always end up back here.”

Lifting his head, he spots Dean’s still looking at him, eyes bloodshot around the edges, exhaustion almost living on his skin. In the heat, though, Castiel can see how unnaturally dark his face is under his left cheek, color beginning to peek through underneath heavily applied concealer, sweat melting it away. Fear pangs through Castiel, and Dean must sense it, as well. Here Castiel is, griping about his problems, and Dean is bruised and hiding it—and himself—behind a one-room church.

“Hey,” Castiel says again, now cautious of Dean’s wariness, slow as he moves to snuff out his cigarette and sit beside him. Initially Dean blinks, leaning away until Castiel palms his cheek. Dean’s skin is warm in the sun, yet his jaw clenched, a hard line under his fingers. “Dean.”

This time, Dean glances over to him, fearful, and slowly mouths, ‘How do you know my name?’

“This kid that sits in the row beside mine told me. Scrawny, too big for his body?”

Dean laughs at that, pained and noiseless, and lowers his head.

“Is someone hurting you?” Castiel asks, blunt; he won’t get any answers from Dean if Dean remains silent. The bruises are enough of an answer, though; a thumbprint is visible behind Dean’s ear, obviously missed in his hasty attempt to cover the marks. “Did someone hit you?” As if on cue, Dean shakes his head and pulls his knees closer, beginning to tremble. “Dean, look at me.”

Dean can’t. At least, not when he’s busy digging his phone out of the pockets of his slacks, pulling up a notepad app and, after aggressively typing out a message, handing it over to Castiel. The words ‘I’m temporarily mute’ are written across the screen, which— _Oh_. Castiel hadn’t thought of that. In the process of dealing with his trauma, Dean’s mind has effectively silenced him until the threat has passed. A coping mechanism for a man hurt one too many times; Castiel frowns with the implication.

But before he can even together along a spiel about how he could help or contact the authorities or something, Dean begins to pull his socks and shoes back on, all while biting his lower lip. Castiel holds Dean’s phone as he does so, only reluctantly handing it back when Dean stands. Again, Dean types out a message, this one longer.

‘I can’t tell you right now. Come back tonight? I’m cleaning after the night service,’ it reads; Dean doesn’t look at him, the redness of his cheeks muted in the sun.

Castiel nods, offering the best grin he can despite the sour anger in his gut. “I’ll be here,” he affirms, just in time for Dean to shove the phone back into his pocket and take off into the building.

All the while, Castiel swallows and steadies himself, the tops of his feet gleaming with sweat. What is he supposed to do, call someone? Tell his parents? Does Dean want anyone to know?

Does he even want Castiel to help?

-+-

When Castiel pulls up around seven that evening, the dirt parking lot is mostly empty, aside from a black behemoth of a Chevrolet sitting out front, shaded by an awning. Overhead, clouds begin to gather, the wind picking up to a light breeze that ruffles his hair as he walks. Faintly, through closed doors, he hears the soft tinks of keys being played, or at least attempted; discordant notes echo through the sanctuary, disheartening to hear, even from the outside. With waning confidence, Castiel opens one of the double doors and steps inside, the ceiling fans offering little reprieve to the increasingly oppressive heat.

Indoors, it’s dark, none of the overhead lights turned on save for the glowing red EXIT sign over each of the back doors. Through a small window above the chancel, the baptism pool sits vacant, the Thomas Kinkade-esque painting dull and lifeless in the dark; the only thing actually resembling life inside the building, and it’s dead, just like the crackled glass windows and the giant cross hanging above the altar.

But amongst it, past the empty, dusted pews and beneath the pulpit sits Dean at the piano, one hand on the keys, the other attempting to move. “Dean?” Castiel calls, his voice echoing. Dean doesn’t startle this time, his attention focused on his task, even as his shoulders shake and his hand refuses to do much other than sit there, useless.

 _It happened again_ , Castiel thinks. It happened again, and Castiel wasn’t there to stop it. Why would he, anyway? He doesn’t know Dean, doesn’t know his family or life, but in that moment, standing next to Dean as he struggles to play a hymn, he feels the utmost urge to protect him, to fix whatever’s broken.

He can’t, though. Not unless Dean talks to him, or even accepts if Castiel asked.

For now, Castiel mutters, “Can I…?” and motions to the bench. Almost as an afterthought, Dean nods and moves over, enough to let Castiel sit beside him.

Castiel doesn’t play; he stopped learning piano when he was a child, after a vehement argument with a teacher that left his parents with no other option but to pull him from class. Instead, he watches Dean struggle with his bruised and bleeding fingers, until Dean can do nothing but just rest them there, a few most likely broken.

There’s no bruising on his face this time, still covered in whatever concealer he owns, but this looks worse—not just physically, but an emotional blow to Dean’s motivation. Does Dean even work? Is this his only job? Does he volunteer? All questions Castiel can’t find out, not unless Dean speaks. And now, he can’t even type. “Can you talk?” Castiel asks, stomach dropping with Dean’s shake of the head. “…Is it broken?”

Silent, Dean nods, and Castiel can only sigh and clench his fists.

Questions linger on his tongue—who did it? Why? Who has it out for him that they’d take away such beautiful music by breaking his bones?—and only by sheer force of will does Castiel not trip over himself to offer help. Rather, he simply takes Dean’s hand in his own and keeps his fingers flat, despite Dean’s choked hisses, the most sound he’s made in the last few weeks, and more than Castiel has ever heard from him. “It’s up to you,” Castiel says, quiet in the sanctuary, “but you need to go to the hospital. You can’t let it stay like this, they won’t heal.”

Dean shoots him a red-rimmed look of ‘I know that,’ but offers no further comment. All he can do is nod, lips pulled into a grimace as he stands. Castiel follows suit, guilt pooling in his gut on their walk to the church doors, Dean’s hand held between his. If only touch could heal wounds or mend time, fix what’s irreparably damaged, Castiel thinks. For now, it’s all he can give to a man he barely knows, solely to keep him safe for as long as he can.

-+-

The perpetrator, Castiel finds out after a series of one-handed messages typed on Castiel’s horizontally held phone, is Dean’s father. Not accidental, but he certainly probably never anticipated his strength, or the fact that slamming his son’s hand in a car door would break nearly all of his fingers. ‘He works in corporate,’ Dean told him while they waited in triage, a hand in Castiel’s lap while he pounded his fingers against the screen. ‘He’s stressed, and I screwed up. It’s my fault.’

“That’s no excuse,” Castiel scowled, harsher than necessary, but Dean only agreed, head lowered.

 _Waiting is the hardest part_ , Castiel considers with Dean leaning against his side on the small bed, curtains pulled around them. To their left, a woman complains of a headache that could possibly be an aneurism, and to their right, a man rants about his escapades as a pro basketball player in the ‘80s. One of them is lying, but Castiel can’t be bothered to care. Not as long as Dean is breathing and out of harm’s way, safe behind sterile walls, at least for now.

“What color cast do you want?” Castiel asks in the lull, lips ticking up when Dean huffs out a laugh. Gently, Castiel takes Dean’s hand and thumbs over the mottled purple spots, over the brittle bones soon to be encased in plaster. “I think green would suit you.” He swallows before finishing. “…It matches your eyes.”

‘You’re being sappy,’ Dean types, brows pinched; despite his facade, Castiel knows he’s faking, especially when he leans in closer, resting his head on Castiel’s shoulder. Warmth fills him at the gesture, and if Dean’s hand weren’t shattered, Castiel would hold him tighter.

“Should… thank you,” Dean says—actually says, his voice hoarse and cracked, but audible all the same. Castiel nearly chokes on his tongue.

But that’s all Dean can manage, falling silent soon after, his eyes fluttering closed under the fluorescent lights. Those three words, Castiel will gladly accept, however small they are. “You don’t have to thank me,” he tells Dean and turns, pressing a kiss into his hair, soft. “If you need someone… I can listen. Even if it’s on a notepad.”

Quietly, Dean chuckles and, one handed, reaches for Castiel’s phone again. He haphazardly types out, ‘You got room at your place tonight?’, then hiding his face in the wake.

 _He’s cute_ , Castiel thinks—even cuter if Dean can sleep away from home to hide and stay safe, even if it is for a night. “Of course,” Castiel hums. Patting Dean’s leg, he continues, “Want me to teach you about how to actually do makeup?”

With his unbroken hand, Dean smacks Castiel’s knee, just as a nurse opens the curtain, ready to set his hand. Briefly, as Dean extricates himself and looks between the nurse and Castiel, Castiel assures him, “We’ll talk about it later,” and glows when Dean smiles, pained but beautiful.

 _This man_ , Castiel intends to never let out of his sight, to never forget, not as long as he’s there to protect him.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not quite sure about this, because I think while it was a great idea, it might've been a stretch to shove it all into something under 5000 words (and this ended up just under 3000, whoops.) But, I hope it came out well in the end! This was written for the DeanCas Tropefest Winter 5k challenge. Also, thanks to Liv for betaing!
> 
> Title is from the [hymn.](https://www.hymnal.net/en/hymn/h/1048)
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
